I hold my breath and count. Exactly forty-five seconds later, he bangs again. “Fifteen minutes!” The steps scream their protests as they’re forced to carry his tremendous weight. For just a moment, I imagine a step collapsing and Walter crashing to the landing, until I decide it’s bad mojo to wish someone else harm. Besides, I’d have to call 911, and I’d be trapped in my apartment until the stairwell was cleared. With Walter’s size, rescue efforts could take all day.
His threat leaves me in a predicament. I’ve finally started writing, but if I don’t work, I’m out of a job and a place to live and therefore, no place to write, and that’s what I want to do. I want to write, and write, then write some more, and when my first book comes out, I’ll write the next one after that, and so on and so forth.
I flip through the journal and watch page after word filled page. I did it. I finally did it. I clutch the journal to my chest.
I can do this.
I can work by day and write by night. Every night. I will write my own future. It’s time to stop living the scrap sheets of someone else’s cut and paste.
I dash into the bedroom to get dressed for work. I don’t even mind wearing the stained mustard uniform, if my reward is writing at night. For the first time in forever, I know what I want to do.
“’bout time you showed up,” Walter grunts from his stool behind the cash register.
“Walter, I’m really sorry I overslept. It won’t happen again. I promise.” I scrunch up my face to look as apologetic as possible. Then I blink a little, as if to beg, ‘pretty please.’ With my newfound vocation waiting for me upstairs I am not above a little flirting with the boss to keep my day job, even if that boss is Walter.
He makes a strange noise somewhere between a throat clearing, growl, and purr. His face turns a dark shade of red beneath the acne scars and oily skin. He scratches his right elbow, then picks a scab on his left forearm, doing everything possible to avoid eye contact with me. “Don’t let it happen again or you will be out of a job,” he warns but there’s no threat left in his voice. “I expect you to work a double today to make up for lost time.”
I groan inwardly. There goes my writing time, but as Cody always said, “If dreams were easy, they wouldn’t be dreams.”
Several large cups of coffee with copious amounts of sugar should send me into caffeinated hyperdrive. I grab my pad and pen and march over to my first customer, who has become a Diner regular.
“Good morning,” I smile at Jeb, as I pour coffee into his mug. Two thin red gashes run from his ear to his chin. “Did you get hurt the other night?”
“What?” he asks, suddenly more interested in the menu than in me. “I don’t…”
“Those assholes hit you during the fight, didn’t they?” His eyes grow wide and he lets out a slow exhale, as if finally realizing what I’m talking about. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for helping Cassie. I don’t know what we would’ve done if you weren’t there.”
He tilts his head. “Tiffani, I would do anything for you. Anything.”
My cheeks grow hot as I remember everything he’s done to me in my fantasies. Thank god he can’t read minds, but if he could…Well, that could be very interesting. I shove my hands into my apron and bounce from my toes to my heels and back again. I feel positively giddy.
“You’re cheerful this morning,” he says before taking a sip of his coffee. He cocks his head to the side, and his free hand creeps across the table. “Good weekend?”
I can sense the direction he’s leading our conversation, but I’m much too excited for flirtatious banter and sexual innuendo. “I started writing last night,” I blurt out.
“That’s fantastic.” He smiles at me. “We should go out tonight and celebrate.”
Leave it to Jeb to find the smallest excuse for us to be together. His thoughtfulness rivals no one I’ve ever met before.
“Tiffani!” Walter barks, “Get moving!”
I roll my eyes but refuse to let my boss ruin my mood. “I have to work a double because I came in late and I missed work yesterday. At this rate, I doubt he’ll even let me take Fischer out for a bathroom break. You want your regular?” I scrawl down a number four with rye.
“Yep, although my weekend was anything but regular.” He inches his hand closer to me. I glance up to make sure Walter’s not watching, before I let my fingers drop and graze his. The touch sends shockwaves up my arms. I keep my eyes lowered as I turn to put his order in with the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty-One
Write. Jeb. Write. Jeb. My new mantra keeps my spirits soaring through my double shift. All my customers, including my regulars, notice my good mood. I reward them with extra smiles and chatter. They reward me with triple tips, and they all become passengers on Katya’s journey.
On my way up the lit stairs to my apartment, I feel all warm and fuzzy. First, I can’t wait to start writing. I came up with so many ideas today I filled up an entire order pad and five napkins. Second, Jeb changed the light bulb so I no longer fear falling down the stairs and dying under a pile of rotting groceries. If Drew changed it one of the several dozen times I asked him, I’d be thinking of him right now instead of Jeb. If only he made phone calls and checked on me. If only he brought me pastries for breakfast. If only he knew when I was sad…, but the choices people make are beyond my control.
I can’t wait to slip back into Katya’s fantasy world, but I should call Jeb first to thank him for taking Fischer out. His optimism that a few handfuls of extra large peanut butter flavored biscuits from the local bakery would win Fischer over convinced me. Well, that and the fact, that when the kitchen ran out of meatloaf and gravy, Walter grew horns and wielded a plastic spork. My chances of a fifteen minute break disappeared with the expired ground beef.
I should also call Cassie. I got so wrapped up in my writing last night I forgot to call her.
Drew can call me. I’m tired of always giving him what he wants. I’m not sure why I don’t feel more upset about him. I’ve felt his absence so keenly for so many months, but then Jeb walked into the Diner and everything changed.
A narrow stream of light spills out into the hallway from my open apartment door. The open door evokes feelings of dread and anticipation. I can see Jeb on the sofa folded over himself. His hands cradle his face, and his head shakes back and forth. Emotion creeps from his body down the floor and through the room, giving my warm and cozy apartment, a cold and uncomfortable feeling, and suddenly, I don’t want to know what’s troubling him. The floor creaks as I walk in. Jeb’s pained expression sends chills down my spine, as I realize something’s missing. “Jeb, where’s Fischer?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Fischer dead. Fischer. Dead. Fischer can’t be dead, but Jeb says he is. His words stream through my subconscious.
“A rupture of his spleen.”
“…probably cancer. Painless though, swift and painless.”
Through the tears, I whine, “but he’s only a year.”
Jeb pulls me to his chest. His hand runs up and down my back, but his touch provides no comfort. “Cancer ignores age.”
“If,” I sob, “if only I took off today.”
He squeezes me closer. “Tiffani, it was unavoidable. You had no way of knowing. The Urgent Care Center said that cancer in pets surprises everyone, and by the time they discover the cancer, it’s too late.”
I grasp onto his last two words: too late. I was too late to save my puppy, my baby, my best friend. Too late. I left him alone in the apartment without a final hug or kiss. Too late.
“Can I see him?”
His body stiffens. I bury my head into his chest, gripping my arms around my stomach. He sighs out loud, rubbing my back. “Oh Angel, the urgent care center sent the body to a cremation company just down the road. You should have his ashes in three weeks.”
Three weeks. Three weeks until my Fischer is with me again. Three weeks is too long.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tuesday. Day one w
ithout Fischer. Call in sick. Cry into the pillow. No calls or texts from Drew or Cassie.
Jeb texts me throughout the morning:
Can I come over?
I’m here for you.
You shouldn’t be alone.
Talk to me. I’m worried about you.
Knocking on the door. “Tiffani, it’s me, Jeb.”
Fischer doesn’t bark because he can’t. He’s dead.
New tears. Bury head under pillow.
Time creeps by. Knocking again. “Still Jeb. Tiffani, open up.”
Bury head under pillow and cry.
Knocking again. “I’m coming in.”
Bedroom door creaks open. Ignore. Keep head under pillow. Bed shifts.
“Fischer wouldn’t want you moping around like this. He’d want you to enjoy life. Go get showered, we’ll go for a run.”
Cry harder. Fischer and I used to run. Clutch pillow to my head. Bed creaks again and bedroom door clicks shut.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Wednesday. Day two without Fischer. Call in sick. Cry sorrows into pillow. No calls or texts from Drew or Cassie.
Knocking on door. “Tiffani, it’s Jeb. Open up.”
Ignore. Bury head under pillow. Cry.
Jeb text:
Can I see you?
Please open up.
I care about you.
I miss you.
Open up.
Bedroom door squeaks. Bed moves.
“Tiffani, enough is enough. Get up.”
Ignore. Clutch pillow.
Pillow torn from me. Squeeze eyes shut. Picked up and carried. Placed in cold porcelain tub. Freezing cold water showers down on me. Screaming. Lots of screaming. Water shut off.
“Are you done?” he snaps, his voice hard and unforgiving.
Ignore.
Freezing cold water again. Screams and protests.
“Are you done?” He growls.
“Yes,” I gasp. I shove thick strands of wet, greasy hair out of my face. “Yes.”
“Good. Now shower and we’re going out.”
“Jeb, I’m not in the mood.”
“We’ll order Indian and bring it back, but you’re getting some fresh air.”
“Jeb, I…”
He kneels down beside the tub and places a finger to my lips. I notice fresh red scratches on the side of his neck and his left forearm. Blood still seeps from one. I reach out to touch his neck. When he realizes what I’m doing, he pulls back from me and stands up.
“Tiffani, take a shower. We’re going out, even if I have to strip off every piece of your clothing and wash you myself.” His threat should thrill and terrify me, but I feel nothing but sadness. “Well?”
I close my eyes, too tired to fight. “I’ll shower.”
Empty cartons of chicken tikka masala, paleek paneer, and kaali dal litter the table. I sit stony-eyed and cross-armed hoping he will take the hint and leave. Instead he pulls out three movies from a duffle bag and fans them under my chin—Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, and The Dark Night Rises.
I sigh. Christian Bale is a habit I can’t break. I flop down on the sofa, re-cross my arms and legs. Despite my depression, I haven’t failed to notice Jeb’s striking resemblance to the long hair, warrior in training Bruce Wayne—I might be really sad, but I’m not dead.
After he puts the first movie on, he sits down on the sofa next to me. I nestle into the corner, willing myself not to acknowledge his presence for the next two hours. Just as Bruce Wayne falls into the ice, I realize I’m leaning against him. Damn that hot superhero and his inability to be anything but perfect. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and tugs me closer to him. Both halves of my broken heart thaw just a bit. I decide to stop fighting the comfort he wants to give me. I let myself melt into his side. His closeness guards against all things wicked.
When the movie ends, I turn to him. A whisper of a breath separates our lips from one another. I could kiss him right now. I could do it. There is no barking dog to interrupt me.
There is no barking dog to interrupt me.
I blink once, twice, but the floodgates open and there’s no holding back the dam. As tears pour down my face, I watch his eyes darken. I can’t tell if he’s angry or frustrated, probably both. I burrow my head into his chest and he wraps his other arm around me into a semi-embrace, not bone-crushing variety, but good enough.
When I’ve shed my last tear, I pull back from him. The throw we shared falls to the floor, and I’m suddenly reminded of a hundred tender moments with Drew, times we stayed up late talking about our futures, soft kisses to my forehead to wake me after I fell asleep during the fifty-first viewing of Field of Dreams, Drew’s weak and often failed attempts at cooking, the mind-blowing sex we had on this very sofa less than three weeks ago.
Drew may have broken my heart, and I might be ready to let go of loose promises made long before we knew better, but kissing Jeb in my apartment, my and Drew’s apartment where his clothes still hang in the closet, would be wrong. I pull away from him. “I think you should go,” I whisper.
He watches me. The gold and green flecks orbit his eyes in a mesmerizing, seductive rhythm. “Is that what you really want?”
I nod, not willing to trust my voice. Any wavering in my resolve, and he will find a reason to stay.
He leans toward me. Our lips mere inches apart. His breath smells like wintergreen. I wonder if he popped in a mint anticipating what comes next or if his breath always smell so fresh. “Are you sure?”
No. I’m not sure. His closeness confuses me, but I know in my heart of hearts, it’s wrong to kiss him in my apartment, at least while traces of Drew still linger with conversations left unsaid, and breakups left undecided or at least not official. I stand up from the sofa, and he follows me. I feel as if he will follow me anywhere, as if he’s patient enough to wait for me for as long as it takes. I take a deep breath, a silent moment of confirmation that I decide my destination. “Thank you for the food and the movie, but I need some time to myself.”
He rubs his hands up and down my arms. “But there are two more Batman movies we haven’t seen.”
I smile at him. He seems so sincere and honest in his motives that I almost consider withdrawing my request. Jeb wants to be here with me. He wants to take care of me, but I’ve spent too many years letting boys guide my life and decide what’s best for me. First Cody, then Drew, now Jeb. The cycle needs to end. My own wants and desires have been set aside long enough. “We’ll watch them some other time, I promise.”
“Walk me out?” He tilts his head toward the door as if it’s a mile away instead of five feet. I laugh at his joke.
It’s the first time I’ve laughed in days. It feels light and airy and wrong, definitely wrong. Fischer is dead, and Cassie and Drew abandoned me.
He pulls me to the door. His lips look moist as if he just licked them. He wants a kiss, a kiss I can’t give him, not here, not now. He lifts my chin, for a moment I don’t resist, falling victim to desire and want and lust and need. As our lips are about to meet, I tug away from him.
‘I’m sorry Jeb, I can’t,” I whisper, pulling my lips into my mouth.
“I understand Tiffani,” he murmurs. “I understand.”
He gives me a soft kiss on my forehead. “Until we meet again Miss Watson. Until we meet again.”
After I lock the door, I turn around and gaze at my apartment. The air in the room shifts. Vanilla candles soften my shoulders. My journal on the end table calls to me. Katya just met a stranger on a ship…
Chapter Thirty-Five
Thursday: Day three without Fischer. Still sad but exhausted from writing all night. Skip work, well aware that I’ll have to start looking for a new apartment and a new job but not really giving a shit. No call or text from Drew or Cassie, and the thought of calling them seems too much effort. I’ve spent my entire life pleasing everybody. I’m tired of it.
Knock on my door. Bury head. Why won’t he just give me some time to myself
? Bedroom door creaks. Bed shifts. He makes himself more comfortable than he should after last night’s rebuff.
He puts his hand on my blanket covered leg. “I have a surprise for you, let’s go.”
I roll myself into a tight ball under the quilts. His persistence is beginning to annoy me. “Can’t I just stay in bed? I went out yesterday and I stayed up late writing.”
He pulls off the blankets, leaving not only my leopard nightie exposed, but most of the skin below my ass cheeks. It wasn’t intentional that I wore the nightie, honest. He groans. “You’re not making this easy for me.”
“You’re the one who keeps barging into my bedroom uninvited.”
“True, perhaps that will change in the future.”
I wait a beat before answering him in no mood for innuendo. “I’ll be out in five minutes. What are you so impatient about?”
“You’ll see, Miss Watson. You’ll see.”
“I don’t know what to say Jeb. It’s too much. Too soon.”
“It really isn’t a big deal. I invested in a business and I need someone to run it.”
“But Jeb, a bookstore?”
Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of owning a bookstore. I imagined a quiet little shop filled with shelves overflowing with books. Girls and boys, men and women could disappear into my shop and lose themselves for hours, days, weeks, amongst the teetering piles of old novels.
I finger the leather volumes in the classic section. Hawthorne, Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman, Cather, oh how I love Cather.
He takes out a book and hands it to me. My Antonia by Willa Cather. I sniff the book without thinking. It smells of dust and old parchment and dreams come true.
And Then He: A Rogue Mountain Billionaire Novel Page 11